


The Small Stuff

by orphan_account



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:22:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He supposes he's getting <i>better</i>, whatever that means.  Still dead, but looking at his face in the mirror comes easier these days.  Looking at the face of Lisa Lancaster smiling up at him from a faded photograph?  Not so easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Stuff

It's the small stuff that gets him: watching Jem shiver on a cold day he doesn't feel, a fly landing on his now-preserved skin as a reminder of the rot and disease waiting just one missed dosage away. Sometimes, after falling into the routine of the living, it's easy for him to forget that he's _dead_.

It's the worst with Jem. He doesn't wear his contacts anymore, and on some level he knows how unfair that is to her. He's just so tired of hiding behind a paper-thin facade that fools nobody.

Tired of being looked at like he's a monster. But on some level, he supposes he is.

He rarely wavers anymore, rarely looks in the mirror and feels the black bile clawing up his throat at the sight of milky pupils and pallid skin. Amy would be so pissed if she saw his mouth twisted in a grimace when he looked at himself, so he tentatively smiles at his ashen reflection every time.

For her.

But still, he can't help but feel like the old man in _The Tell-Tale Heart_ sometimes. So grotesque that he could drive people to the brink of their own frayed sanity after the Rising just by looking at his uncovered eyes.

It comes to a head for him when he wanders into Jem's room looking for a pair of earbuds she borrowed from him. He doesn't get very far, though, because something catches his eye.

There, in the middle of the bed by an old ratty HVF armband, is the face of Lisa Lancaster staring up at him.

It feels like an invasion of privacy, like something a real monster would do, but he can't help it. He picks the photograph up and meets her eyes. They're alive with excitement and mirth. Cheeks flushed, hair loose, forehead split open, brains spilling out – _no._

He shakes his head as the world tilts 180 degrees. It throws him back down into that cave, back into the graveyard, against bloodstained rocks and overturned dirt. He's unsteady on his feet, disoriented and terrified as his ass hits the floor like the earth's gravity is trying to push him back down into the ground where he belongs.

He crawls away from the discarded photograph, scrambling out of reach of the memories splattered across his thoughts like gore. He doesn't need to breathe, but he does anyway. Heaving, high-pitched, ugly animal sounds escape with every harsh breath.

When his back hits the wall, he curls his knees up to his chin, trapping himself alone with the reminder of what he's capable of.  He doesn't know how long he stays like this, trying to rein in his frantic breaths, curled against the wall, but a gasp brings him back to himself.

“Jesus, Kier,” Jem breathes, dropping her bag to the floor. “What are you doing in here? You scared the shit out of me.”

He doesn't say anything, not a word. Jem approaches, muttering his name quietly like a question. When he looks up, she's holding the photo of Lisa, looking at it like she's staring straight through to the floor.

“Head doctor said I should bring these to our next session,” she explains. “Stupid.”

She drops the photo on the bed and holds out a hand for him to take. He just stares at it for the longest time, but she looks content to stand there until he's ready to get up. He wants to reach forward and let her pull him up, pull him out of this toxic mindset that's coursing through his blood and bones, weighing him down like lead. He wants so badly for love to fix him, to clear his mind, to make him believe that _what I did in my untreated state was not my fault._

No matter how frequently his parent's smile at him, how often Jem calls him a dick with affection threaded through her voice, how many times Simon brushes his hair from his forehead and looks at him like he's beautiful, how much he wants to make Amy proud, he still feels fucked up.

So he says that.

“I'm fucked up,” he croaks, voice wrecked. “I'm really fucked up, Jem.”

Jem drops her hand, because obviously that wasn't working. Instead, she folds her legs underneath herself and sits on the floor. Close but not too close.

“Yeah you are,” she says, and he's taken aback for a second. “So am I. And mum and dad. And everybody, really.”

“You guys didn't –” He wavers, and then powers forward: “You didn't _tear_ people apart.”

“I _did_ kill people,” she says evenly, steeling her voice against every terrible memory trying to rattle her, “I almost – almost killed _you_.”

He shoves his face against his knees and tries to sob. He can't though, it's like he's constantly suspended in the period after you've cried yourself empty but still need to keep going. It's like dry heaves, like his insides are rubbed raw. He thinks that maybe if he can cry, he can flush the memories straight out.

It wouldn't work, he knows. But it would be nice to feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes, at least.

Fuck, he misses the small stuff about being alive.

“Come on now,” Jem says, gently coaxing his head up so she can get a good look at him. “Come on.”

He doesn't fight it, he lets Jem tug him forward in a hug that starts out tentative and awkward until he slumps fully against her and she tightens her grip. He can't feel much aside from the pressure of her arms. Still, he sinks into the embrace like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Maybe we should get you some help, too,” Jem says, and he barks out a small laugh.

“Maybe.”

They stay like that a while, his face shoved into her shoulder as she holds him still through the dry tremors.

“This feels backwards,” he says after some time, “Like I should be the one holding onto you.”

“What, you're saying you want _me_ to cry?”

“No,” he says, “God no. It's just – You're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Not that you're like, a badass or something –”

“Oi, watch it.”

“– But just, in general. You know?”

He pulls back to look at his sister, his strong little-big sister. With his starburst pupils he takes in her eye bags, her soft hair, her wrists free of lacerations or track marks even after everything she's gone through, and he's _so_ _proud_ of her.

“It's not your fault,” she says, sounding so much like a little sister should that something inside of him breaks. Coming from her, it sounds real. It sounds sincere. He cracks a smile, doesn't even have to force it, and she smiles alongside with him.

“We'll be alright,” he mutters, and it might just be the truth.

Some days, Kieren Walker looks in the mirror and thinks he's a monster, or something like one. But he has to believe he'll be alright, that _they'll_ be alright. And for the first time in a while, he really does.

 


End file.
